


Anchor

by DarkShadeless



Series: SWTOR - collection [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Recovery, Shame on you, dealing with the fallout of being abandoned by your Jedi Master, falling, in the Jedi kind of way, so a lot of feelings, yes I'm looking at you Xerender
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 12:13:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15640533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: Falling isn't all it's cracked up to be. It is fear, the slow, inevitable slide toward the abyss, while you frantically search for a handhold you won't find.Unless someone catches you, anyway.( Part 2 of Resonance )





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pomegrenadier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenadier/gifts).



> Seeing as I still owe Sewlor, pomegrenadier and the whole lot of you the other 50% of my happy ending... lets get to it, eh? ;)  
> Here's a start. I hear beginnings and endings go hand in hand.

 

 

It takes some time before Sewlor really wakes up.

He drifts in and out of consciousness. The aches and pains fade, even the burning in his throat and the gnawing of his stomach. It’s warm. The cold that had crept into his very bones has gone away and his body slowly starts to believe it won’t return.

For a while Sewlor is convinced he’s dead.

That’s less concerning than he would have expected. Nothing hurts. It’s not so bad.

 

Sometimes there are people waiting for him when he opens his eyes, crowned with unsteady light. 

“Are you feeling well?”

The woman feels so bright, soothing and cool in the Force. There is a gentleness to her, too, that takes away the sting of being reminded of- of Hoth. Of the cave.

Sewlor can’t get out more than a sickly rasp. 

“Don’t try to talk just yet. Yes or no?”

Nodding makes his whole world swim but it’s worth it to make her smile at him. Her happiness is like sunshine on a slow morning in the courtyard of the Temple on Tython. It's _home_.

 

The other one, a man, he’s more disconcerting. He’s scarred and pale, with shadows under his otherworldly eyes but there is a heat to him that sinks into Sewlor’s very soul.

He spends most of his visits grasping at his presence. So vast he could get lost in it, it thrums with power. Every time Sewlor thinks he has a hold of it, it slides out from under his touch. The attempt makes his mind buzz with the pulse, the heartbeat of a sleeping giant.

His watcher laughs quietly. “Easy there. Don’t reach too far.”

“But where does it end?”

“Not in that direction.”

 

If the woman is peace, the man is _life_. Being one with the Force is so weird. Neither of his visitors looks very happy when Sewlor tells them this but they won’t let him apologize either.

“Hush, now. Sleep.”

A gentle push and he goes under, floating back into nothingness.

 

 

_… delirious. Are you sure he should have stimulants in his condition?_

_He needs them. We have to keep his metabolism up somehow._

_Very well. I don’t like this._

_Neither do I, Master._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

The day comes when Sewlor recognizes the cloying smell of kolto. It's taste is heavy on his tongue, inescapable. His head feels stuffed full with synthmesh.

The wavering lights that are in turn too bright and too dim to endure come from the kolto tanks along the wall, the beeping that haunted his dreams from a slew of machinery attached to his bed.

He’s in a med bay.

 _How did I get here?_ The last thing he can remember is the cave, pacing to keep the chill at bay. Waiting for a Master that wouldn’t come.

_But someone had. Hadn’t they?_

Before Sewlor can chase that thought to whatever washed out memory it might lead, he's distracted. A woman comes in, drawing his attention like the tide a shoal of hapless fish. She looks vaguely familiar.

With her arrival the deep hum of machinery spills into the room, artificial light throws her shadow into sharp relief and paints her red. Something about that is... wrong. Unease reaches for him though he can't say why.

The door slides closed behind her and the med bay is peaceful again.

“Oh, you’re awake! How are you today?”

That, too, is familiar. Has this happened before?

Sewlor watches her approach, tongue tied. He’s fine. Isn’t he? For some reason that makes him swallow reflexively.

“I’m alright.”

"Good. Do you feel up to a few tests?"

"I guess?"

The woman busies herself with the screens, flipping through diagnostic schematics he can’t make heads or tails of. Sewlor feels so weak, wrung out like a rag. _How long have I been here? Where is here?_

“Who are you?”

The question startles her out of her routine. He meets her careful gaze and tries not to get overwhelmed by how horribly out of his depth he is. Clearly, he should know this.

_What happened?_

His caretaker gifts him a smile. “I’m Jaesa. Don’t worry, all you need to do is rest and get better.”

A memory stirs.

 

_You’re safe._

_Hush. Sleep._

**_Jaesa!_ **

Sewlor finds himself clawing at his own throat, gasping for breath. He’s fighting someone’s hold on him, hands on his wrists- They're talking. The words blur and make no sense, drowned out by the scream trapped in his mind.

 

_He can’t get lose-_

They let him go only for the hold to return even more unforgiving than before, pinning him to the bed. Sewlor thrashes wildly, choking on nothing. His vision swims, catches, holds. Burning amber, bright as flame.

_Sith. The Sith, oh Force._

He fights, because he can’t _not_ , though it’s hopeless. The man might as well have been wrought from durasteel, for all that he's budged by Sewlor’s efforts.

How long have they had him? What have they _done_ with him? _What has he told them?_ He can’t _remember_. There is the cave and there is now and in between is nothing but a blank space. Snatches of fever dreams at most, hazy and unreal.

Sewlor's muscles burn, his lungs ache. His Master would tell him to keep a cool head, to save his strength but his Master has abandoned him to this, hasn’t he? Every time he has to remind himself of that it is as if he has been betrayed anew.

Weak as he is it doesn't take long until his limbs give up on him. He almost makes himself sick before it comes to that, but they do. The exertion leaves Sewlor trembling with exhaustion. His pulse is fluttering, so loud in his ears other sounds only return gradually.

Protesting medical equipment. The quiet, far-off purr of a starship engine. Words.

“- on Hoth anymore. You’re safe. No one will harm you. You’re not-“

The sentences loop into each other, steady and calm. They worm their way past Sewlor's fear in spite of everything. Pretty lies he knows better than to believe, _should_ know better. Slowly the suffocating pressure of his own terror lifts.

It’s such a relief, he can’t contain a sob. _Some Jedi you are. No wonder Master Xerender left you behind._

He lets the soothing drone sweep even that away. What does it matter, when it comes down to it? 

“Can you understand me now? Do you know where you are?”

_Don’t. Keep talking, please._

Sewlor blinks his eyes open and tries to ignore the tears sliding down his cheeks. It’s a stress reaction. Natural. It’s… it’s fine. _He hasn’t cried in front of anyone since he became an initiate._ “No?”

The Sith’s mouth presses into a thin line. It’s all the padawan can do not to shrink into the mattress at the sign of displeasure. “What is the last thing you remember?”

 _Snow. Cold. Hunger._ Is there something specific they want to hear? Something they took, or gave him?

“I… fought? You? I fought you, didn’t I?”

The man nods slowly. “You did. And then?”

“I lost?” The Jedi's pride twinges. It is a small ache, all things considered. But confirmation of how outmatched he is isn’t what his captor looks for, it seems. His expression is carefully neutral, searching.

 

_Claws on stone._

Sewlor’s next breath dies in his throat. He struggles to keep some semblance of composure.

 

_Broonmark. Pressure on his neck. White hot pain._

 

From one moment to the next the memory is _there_ , his mind shying away even as he gets caught in it. Trapped in amber, frozen perfection red as blood and Sewlor wants nothing more than to forget how it feels to be prey in the talons of a predator. 

_Perhaps he would have been better off if he hadn't remembered a single thing._

 

 


End file.
